Chapter Text
March 1
As Tally unrolled her sleeping bag, she mourned the loss of Ruby Balfour’s many four-postered beds. Falling into the same sheets and arms every night for nearly two months, something like normalcy had taken hold. The stripping of it left her disconcerted and raw.
Arms slinked around her waist, and Tally sighed. This part of her routine, at least, she could keep.
“I have something for you.”
Tally sank against Sarah’s chest. “Is it a granola bar? I’m starving.”
“It is not.” Sarah’s voice was light. She’d been happier recently. The unknown course of their fight still haunted, but they had found a rhythm they could abide, the bitterness of fear cut by the comfort of not having to carry it alone. Sarah had Tally. “Sorry.”
Tally had her.
“You know if we accumulate any more luggage, Abigail will start lecturing again.”
Sarah’s lips danced along Tally’s throat. “Just this one thing.”
The item Sarah collected for her was instantly recognizable. When she set it in Tally’s hands, the hum of old Work vibrated from its binding into Tally’s fingertips. She ran her palm over the fragile, faded cover. “One of your old war journals.”
“From the French and Indian Wars, yes.”
“I’ve never seen that set before.”
“You wouldn’t have,” Sarah said. “Most of them were auctioned during the Depression.”
“Is this why you spent our last week at Ruby’s down in the basement? You were reading your old journals?”
Sarah nodded. “I remembered something.” She sang a Seed over the weathered book to unseal its binding. “It took me a while to find what I was looking for.” She flipped to a delicately dog-eared page. As was the case with all Sarah Alder’s infamous war journals, the ink had been preserved with Work. Still, time had not been kind. Her script was loopy and smeared in places, faded but, thankfully, still legible. She tapped an entry in the middle of the page. “Here. Read.”
13 September 1757.
Newest addition to my coven—Joanna Mae Craven. Has asked me to call her Jojo. Formidable young witch. Impressive Sight skills. Her intuition has already proven a boon in battle.
Not to my surprise but to my pleasure, my sisters have taken to her in haste. Her hair is as burnished copper, and when she smiles, two small dimples appear in her cheeks. It is childlike in its unrestraint, and I find it spreads as infection. Her presence is as that of the sun’s shine—a rare joy for battle-weary souls.
She has drawn laughter from even Winifred, who I believe has not laughed since 1750.
I anticipate great things.
Tally’s eyes stung wonderfully as she traced her finger over the words, her thumb over Sarah’s smile. “This is definitely worth a lecture.”
Sarah hummed, pleased. “Good,” she whispered into a kiss, soft with words unspoken but keenly felt. “Now, come and help us outside.”
Yes, there was work yet to be done. But not alone.
Never alone.
“Okay.”